


never send me roses

by rizcriz



Series: tumblr is dying time to get compiling [32]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Crack, Fluff, M/M, eliot's allergic to roses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-16 15:08:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16956303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rizcriz/pseuds/rizcriz
Summary: in which, roses are the villain.





	never send me roses

Quentin’s curled up on the couch in the cottage when Eliot bursts in, nose red and runny, eyes puffy. He looks positively furious, as he slams his way through the cottage to the small kitchenette to drop off the take from the village. Quentin watches him, unmoving, opting to let him work out the hissy fit of anger before even thinking to ask him what the fuck happened. **  
**

Rupert’s off at a friends in a village down the stream, and they’ve opted to take the weekend off from working on the mosaic. It’s been weeks without a break, and ultimately, the world has waited this long, it can wait a little longer for them to live their lives around it. He glances at the stack of tiles on the table by his socked feets, tilting his head for a moment. Maybe Eliot’s angry that the mosaic isn’t done.

Maybe it’s another fit about Margo never meeting their son.

Maybe it’s something else.

He never knows what it is with Eliot.

Though, he supposes, Eliot would say the same about him.

The cabinets in the kitchenette finally stop slamming, and Quentin looks up as Eliot, childish pout on his lips, stomps his way through to the couch, and stands at the center of their faux living room, hands on his hips, as he glares down at Quentin.

Quentin frowns. “What’d I do?”

Eliot opens his mouth, poofy eye twitching, before he lifts a hand from his hips and waves it at Quentin menacingly. “Never,” He says, pointing at him, “Ever. Send me Roses, Quentin Coldwater.”

Quentin blinks.

What?

He hadn’t.

Oh shit, is this because he didn’t send flowers? He thought they stopped celebrating the anniversary–wait, it’s not the anniversary. It’s not Eliot’s birthday. It’s not Quentin’s birthday. He purses his lips–could it be Margo’s? No, no. It’s nobodies birthday. It’s definitely not Ruperts.

It’s not the anniversary of their first kiss.

Of their ceremony.

Of–hell not even of Arielle’s appearance in their lives. Or her death, not that Eliot’s morbid enough to expect that kind of anniversary to be of the flower giving variety.

Today has literally no significance. None. Zilch. Not even Josh could find a fake holiday to make today important.

Margo could probably make one up, if she were here. National Celebrate Beautiful Women Day, or something.

He’d celebrate it, if he’s being honest.

“What the fuck, Eliot?”

He doesn’t mean to sound so confused, sometimes it’s better to pretend to know what he’s talking about, even if Eliot knows he has no clue, but god damn it–there’s no reason Eliot should expect flowers.

They’ve never exchanged flowers.

Well. That’s not true.

Eliot brought a bundle of lillie’s home once.

But that was just because.

… wait, does Eliot expect just because flowers? Because that is a very Eliot expectation.

He can’t believe he hasn’t thought to buy Eliot just because flowers.

Fuck.

He’s about to get dumped by his life partner of fifteen years because he didn’t buy him flowers just because.

The finger waivers, and twists around to point at his own face. “Some–some idiot,” He hisses out the word, like the person he’s talking about doesn’t even deserve to exist, let alone be so high up the intelligence latter as to qualify to be smart enough to be considered an idiot, “Crashed into my cart, and threw roses in my fucking face.”

Quentin blinks.

“Apparently, I’m allergic to roses.” He sounds equally furious and disgusted by the statement.

Quentin just blinks again.

“Q,” Eliot says, dropping his hand to his hip again, and tapping his foot, “Did you hear me?” His voice is kind of muffled by his chubby, swollen cheeks. It gives it the kind of comedic effect of a cartoon character bitten by fifty bees.

Quentin nods, once, swallowing, as the muscles in his jaw clamp tighter to stop the smiling fighting from winning it way onto his face. But the fight is strong, and he ends up curling his lips inwards, using his teeth to hold them, and the laughter in.

Oh, god.

“Then maybe say something?”

Quentin shakes his head.

“Or cast something!”

And, it’s the final straw as Eliot’s foot stomps, much like when Rupert doesn’t get his way and stamps his foot down on the ground demanding attention, and his way. The laughter bubbles out of him, one little hiccup at a time, until he’s hunching over the side of the couch, full on guffawing as Eliot stomps his foot again.

It just makes the laughter come bursting louder, boisterous and joyful.

Eliot’s only mad for a moment longer, before he sighs and leans against the wall. And suddenly, there’s an equally awed laughter joining Quentin’s, and they’re both laughing themselves silly over Eliot’s puffy face.

Quentin moves his hair aside, looks up at Eliot, trying to gain a breath–but Eliot’s face has only grown more swollen, and it doesn’t seem to be impeding any important functions like breathing, so the sight of Eliot’s bunch up eyes, practically disappearing beneath the swollen puffiness of his eyes, and the way his lips seem to have grown twice their normal size–

Quentin thinks he’ll never breathe again he’s laughing so hard.  

But he does breathe again, eventually, curled up on the floor in between the table and the couch, while Eliot’s slid down the wall, banging his head against the wall in an attempt to stop laughing. Quentin’s stomach aches–he might have just laughed himself a set of abs. Eliot would appreciate that. Screw ‘just because’ flowers–how about ‘just because you’re an idiot’ abs?

That’s a gift worthy of Eliot.

Finally, he takes in a breath and forces himself to sit up, reaching up to brush his hair back, raking his fingers through his hair. He grins across the room at Eliot, and his swollen, chipmunk face, before carefully casting a quick healing spell.

The swelling goes down quickly, until it’s just the pretty brown of Eliot’s eyes staring at him–the pretty brown that never muddies or grows boring, the pretty brown that makes Quentin happy to be here, okay with never seeing their friends again.

The corners of Eliot’s lips twitch, but he rolls his eyes, tosses his head so his curls fall out of his face, and says, cool and as Eliot as possible, “Took you long enough.”

It’s not Quentin’s fault that he bursts out laughing again.


End file.
